


Purpose

by ivesia19



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Canon Related, Castiel has faith in Dean, Fallen Cas, M/M, Pre-Slash, vague timeline
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-16
Updated: 2015-07-16
Packaged: 2018-04-09 13:50:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4351214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ivesia19/pseuds/ivesia19
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He traded choirs of angels for arrhythmic snoring and beams of unending light for a flip of a switch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Purpose

**Author's Note:**

> Reposted from my livejournal from many moons ago.

There was a time when Castiel had a purpose. A time when he was doing something that mattered. (Cool ethereal hands circled tightly around the burning flesh of once pure skin.) 

There’s still a plan, still a purpose, but Castiel doesn’t feel the same certainty that used to envelope him like a promise. 

Before, it was bright, healing light and talk that was just and right and holy. Now, the only light that Castiel sees comes from switches and buttons pressed by calloused fingers (fingers that Castiel knows, fingers that he helped rebuild). 

It used to be that he was connected. Connected to his brothers and sisters. Connected to his Father. Connected to everything – all of it. 

So far from home now, so far from Heaven, the only connection that Castiel feels is one that he knows could be so easily broken. One that seems to sway and trip up – falter.

It’s not Dean’s fault, though, this frail string of something that barely keeps Castiel feeling grounded. He’s only human. 

And that’s all that Castiel has left, the only thing that he clings to – this thing called humanity. 

At times, Castiel thinks of his brother Lucifer and how he Fell because of humanity. He wonders if there’s some significance that while his reasons were different – so different because humanity called to him, Dean called to him – it’s exactly the same.

Some might view it that way.

He disobeyed, after all. 

It’s nights like this, though, nights when Dean’s skin glows a strange off-orange tone in the harsh light of the motel bathroom while he washes the blood from a cut on his shoulder (just above Castiel’s mark, even the jagged claw of the beast not daring to mar the connection) that Castiel remembers the beauty of what he’s gained.

The blood is bright against Dean’s skin. In places, the red glistens, and in others it looks faded and cracked. When Dean passes the quickly dirtying washcloth over the mark, the red smears and lightens.

Castiel watches, the cool wall of the bathroom a comfortable reminder that he’s there. He’s here.

There are only a couple of feet separating him and Dean, and Castiel can smell the faint tang of Dean’s blood. It’s not new or surprising. It’s familiar. In a way, it’s Dean, and Castiel knows far more about Dean than he probably should.

“Cas.” Dean’s voice, gruff and low and so familiar reaches Castiel, and he looks up. In the mirror, Dean’s eyes meet his own, and he says, “Can you get the back? It’s a weird angle.” 

Nodding, Castiel doesn’t break contact with Dean’s eyes in the mirror as he steps forward, but when Dean looks away, looks down to where his hand is outstretched with the washcloth, Castiel looks down, too.

“Thanks,” Dean says, and when he hands over the washcloth – wet with warm water and the stickiness of blood – Castiel feels the brush of their fingers: real and warm and nothing like the weightlessness of Heaven. 

Castiel is careful as he cleans the drying blood off of the back of Dean’s upper arm. He wraps one of his own hands around Dean’s elbow, steadying him, and when Dean sways back for a moment, unbalanced, Castiel’s frame is there to keep him from falling.

The pressure of Dean’s body against his only lasts a moment before Dean snaps back up, but the contact is almost enough.

In the next room, already asleep on a mattress that has seen better days is Sam, and as Castiel cleans Dean’s wounds, he thinks of how his own brothers have fallen silent to him.

Sam’s snores come through the thin walls of the bathroom – a low buzz in the background – but it’s all a part of Castiel’s life now. He traded choirs of angels for arrhythmic snoring and beams of unending light for a flip of a switch.

His hand falters at the thought, and Dean asks, “You okay, Cas?”

He doesn’t say anything more, but Castiel knows Dean by now. Of course he does.

“Yes,” he says, and he continues the gentle motions of his hands, cleaning Dean of the blood on his skin just as he did so many months ago, his hand firm and strong against Dean’s arm, and this time, instead of a burn, Castiel leaves behind an absence when he pulls away.

“We should get some rest,” Dean says, coughing and not meeting Castiel’s eyes in the mirror. “We have a big day tomorrow.”

And Castiel knows it’s true, so he follows Dean out of the bathroom, his finger – growing calloused itself now – hitting the light switch as they leave.


End file.
